Composition
by beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: Steve's lastest investigation seems to run deeper into the dark, dangerous pit, than he expected. At the same time, while his life is threatened, the inspiration for his article is more intense than ever. And he realizes it's his source's, Catherine, influence. [AU story]
1. Chapter 1

What started as a short drabble for tumblr's mcrollins au week, became a tiny obsession and now I can't stop thinking about writing more glimpses into that world. It's not a promise of a full, solid story. Most likely, it's going to be a bunch of drabbles, small scraps from that one verse.

* * *

Stacatto of the city's night sounds pulses rhythmically, the blur which mere minutes ago was muffled, lost in the breathless melody, cutting his usually sharp senses from surroundings and possible threats, limiting everything, all sensations, only to that soft body pulling him in.

There used to be a time, when Steve easily dozed off after sex, pleasantly exhausted, but for years the afterglow pulsed within him in a rush of adrenaline. Caleidoscope of thoughts, pushed aside as he pushed _inside_ , became clearer after that last thrust, evoking the itching in his fingers, demaning to feed the need to run them over the keyboard.

It's like an instinct to hunt the topic, when he encounters it, never backing down. Chasing leads, running on pure adrenaline, until the article is finished and printed.

And he _fucking_ loves the feeling of his whole body tingling. The blinding sparkles of orgasm still lingering, combining with the increasing flow of writer's haze. From one surge of adrenaline to the other.

His dick is still sticky wet, softened against his thigh. The warm, small hand tapping against it tenderly, as if already missing it's presence inside of her, makes him smirk.

Steve places a kiss on her shoulder, then leans over the edge of the bed and reaches across the floor for his laptop.

"You're writing again?" Catherine asks, her voice raspy, bearing hints of sleepiness.

Covering his crotch with the pillow, he settles against the headboard and places the computer on his lap. "You inspire me so much," Steve chuckles, fingers already skimming over the small, black buttons. He loves writing at night. With the yellows and blues of the city lights flickering outside the window, and the delicate light illuminating the keyboard on his laptop.

"Maybe someday that will be true," there's an edge in Cath's voice, not of regret or accusation, but a distinctive hint, which makes Steve look at her with guilt.

It was never supposed to be that way. He's always been professional, keeping his informants protected, sometimes well paid, or fed, but never crossing the line of the illusion of friendship. Then, four months ago, as he was walking circles on that God's forsaken case, Catherine Rollins appeared like a lightning. The source, who provided him with the informations and anewed deluge of vehemence.

Steve's not sure, which one of them pulled the other one into this boiling pit, but it quickly became obvious, they've gotten themselves into a very dangerous trouble.

Somehow, however, the needy, hard sex, serving them both as a valve for the heaped fear and adrenaline, became a game of some sort. Testing the boundaries, challenging, who will cave in first.

And he can't help it, even if he promises himself to. Catherine caves in so deliciously.

He likes touching her, making her compliant, as well giving himself to her. Inextricably, Steve feels, he's leading them both to doom. Especially unfolding next layers of this case, that turns out to run deeper than he initially envisioned.

Without a word, he reaches his hand and traces his fingers along Cath's arm. Up, over her shoulder, circling his fingertips around the small bitemark, which he sealed on her delicate skin. Brushing dark strands aside, Steve skimms his digits over the blue ink of tattoo on the nape of her neck, before withdrawing to caress Catherine's blushed cheek with the back of his hand.

"You determine me," he says softly, for the first time admitting it aloud, "I'm going to finish this investigation, expose them all and bring them down. And you'll be safe again."

Cath turns onto her side, the sheet falling completely off from where it was carelessly wrapped around her hips. Though not purposely, she enjoys the effect it has on Steve, noticing his gaze dropping lower for a few seconds.

"At this point, I'm not sure if I know how to live without that thrill." While the rush and excitement turned out to be too tempting for her to be reasonable and walk away, when she still had a chance, it's another part without which she fears to live.

But these words don't come out, _I don't want to move on from you_.

While the case is open and article nowhere near done, she can have it. The ridiculous, carefree lunches, where they flirt more than talk about the investigation, as well the exploration of their bodies, leaving hot marks on her skin - she loves it, every second of it.

"Maybe you can become an investigative journalist?" Steve grins at her, "There's always some scum to bring down."

"Nah, I'm not a writer. Never have been good with words," knowing it's a futile attempt, trying to direct this conversation towards emotional waters, Cath rolls her eyes and flops on her back. One hand draped abover her head, playing with the corner of the pillow, the other resting low on her abdomen, index finger mindlessly flicking the thin stripe of hair covered in slick and come.

"But you have an eye," he points out, keeping up with the conversation and typing at the same time, "Your photographs are great. And you're rather sneaky."

Cath only hums at that, not wanting to indulge herself in images and hopes for any what-ifs, as she doubts he even remotely means it. The compliment on her photography, maybe, but not the implication of using it in an actual investigation.

The silence spreads like a silky, delicate sheet, covering them with a surprising comfort. It's astonishing, how silence is never bothering when they're together, evokes no hint of uneasiness. There's only Cath's still slightly ragged breath, lost in the clicks of buttons, as Steve's fingers quickly move over the keyboard, and the echo of an ambulance's sirens, cutting through the streets.

Turning her head, to look at him working, Catherine can't help the increasing curiosity and excitement, itching to lean over his shoulder and drink up all the swiftly weaved words.

He's good, really good, with a talent for sharp, perfectly executed conclusions. The wit, which is still embroidered within his articles, doesn't overbear the text with the so popular nowadays tendency to drown everything in sarcasm. Steve's more pragmatic, building his compositions in a great balance between a solid, military report and a thrilling, criminal plot.

She watches his fingers gliding over the illuminated keys, surprisingly delicate. Maybe it's all the experience in writing, that makes his fingers skilful in other areas - fucking her in straight, slow pushes, then curled up demands, splashing her slick all over his hand.

"Today-" though Cath's voice doesn't quiver, she takes a second to compose herself, forcing the fear back into the tiny corner of her mind, before it overtakes her, "It was close."

The bitter taste threatens to fill her mouth again, with a renewed strength, as the memory of Steve's body rolling over the hood of the car, flashes before her eyes. He was quick, thankfully, jumping on the parked vehicle and rolling over onto the pavement, when the driver of a black SUV aimed for him with a full speed. Catherine can't remember much from it, though it happened less than five hours ago, but the pain in her chest, as she has watched him fall. According to Steve, she yelled his name.

So he made her scream it more, this time secured in his arms. Against the door, bent over the sofa, on this messy bed.

The decision to become his informant hasn't been an easy one, but she couldn't work for these people anymore. Not when she found out what happens underneath the pretty facade of charity and international cooperation. Now, when someone from Steve's coworkers leaked his newfound investigation to Cath's employers, he's been targeted. And yet, he seems alarmingly not moved by that.

"Aren't you scared?" Catherine asks quietly, eyes glued to his fingers on the keyboard, not daring to look at his face, in fear of finding there only reckless ignorance, or a dismissive smirk.

The pace of his digits seems to quicken suddenly, pressing harder against the set of delicate buttons. With a flourish, Steve clicks the dot and saves the document, then puts the laptop on the small bedside table. He throws the pillow on the floor and moves his body, stretching and pressing himself against Catherine.

"I am scared. Often," he admits sincerely, burying his face in the crook of Cath's neck. "Today I was terrified," Steve's eyes flutter close at the softest moan escaping her lips, when he traces his fingertips over her nipple, red teeth marks adorning the pinky halo like a crown. "I was scared they might aim for you too," moving his hand across, he tugs on her arm, until she rolls over to face him, breasts pressed against his chest.

"Still am," Steve rasps out, before kissing her.

The moist lips moving against his, surge a rush, which is more thrilling than any of his adrenaline-driven investigations, enticing as much as writing does.


	2. Chapter 2

The pool full of sharks would be less dangerous, he feels, than the softly illuminated patio, swaying to the rhythm of music and carried conversations, most of which bear so much hidden venom. He can sense it pumping, swishing in sync with the melody of a polite, but false mirth. Or maybe it's the sound of the adrenaline buzzing faintly in his veins, filling his mouth with a sickly tempting, bitter trepidation.

Never being one to willingly participate in such events, Steve feels less confident than under the bridge in the middle of the night when meeting with an informant from the mob.

 _What a fucking hilarious contradiction_ , he thinks, peering through the window at the colourful silhouettes twirling around. With all the heavy security, it's the most unsafe terrain. The traps and demons lurking here are more sinister than a simple death threat.

But he observes, curiosity and precaution urging him on, fishing out peculiar patterns among the elegant crowd.

Seemingly harmless, he knows many of these people are ready to kill to protect their little secrets and reputation.

The itch arises, bubbling under his skin, making his fingers wiggle slightly, ready to compose sentences. The writer's haze starts anew, prompted by the mere oportunity of reaching the hidden core of a pretty facade, stripping them all down, until the nasty, primal base is shown to the world.

He tightens his grip on the belt of his bag, where the laptop is nestled in a bundle of crumpled papers and warm scarf. Mostly, to refrain from following the temptation to start writing here and now, but there's another impulse suddenly piercing through.

Steve notices a familiar face. Lori, a reporter working for the same paper, whose presence doesn't really surprise him - she always covered social events, skilfully sneaking among the rich crowds.

But she's a piranha. Clever and perceptive, and out for blood, for a long time has been hungry for a solid topic. And he is not good at sharing.

Neither his stories, nor private details.

He steps back, pressing himself further into the shadows, hiding his face behind a thick, red curtain. The possibility of being seen by Lori is low, but he's not taking chances. Not with her, not with any of the watchful security members out there. Maybe if he was alone, he'd risk crossing the line for the sheer chance of finding something more, but the buzzing of the computer behind his back reminds Steve of the additional presence.

The blueish glow from the computer's screen illuminates Catherine's face, washing out her warm skintone into a vision of cold, dreadful image, that pierces Steve's chest with an abrupt panic.

A sharp thought appears, driven by guilt and fueled with the adrenaline, which resumes its familiar course through his veins.

Steve's in his element, even if experiencing doubts and simple, human fear. Dragging Catherine into it, however, appears to be the worst of his decisions so far. Rifling her of safety, which Steve knows should be his primary concern, doesn't scare him as much as the cobweb of feelings for her he has weaved himself into.

"Thanks, Cath," the words leave his mouth in a dry whisper, startling both of them.

She looks up at him. Pupils blown in the semi-darkness, so similar to her face glowing in increasing arousal when they fuck, if not for the flicker of bewilderment in her eyes.

Catherine's heart thumps loudly, the rapid rush of blood buzzing in her head from the moment she walked into the building, the sound of her silver heels clicking barely audible through the pounding upsurged by adrenaline.

She used to anticipate the charity gala at the Noshimuri's with a fairly vain excitement. This time, though, she'd prefer to stay hidden in the dubious safety of her own bedroom, tangled in the sheets. But following Steve's logic and experience, they could use this evening as an opportunity to get their hands on Adam Noshimuri's computer.

It's a risk, a bloody death wish they're rubbing against. And it terrifies her, how much incomprehensible excitement it brings, stirring from a place deep inside of her, which has never been scrutinized.

Then again, Steve tends to do that - exposing the hidden, dark places, so vehemently exploring them.

He fucks like that too.

Always deep, always hard. Pushing still after she's lax and spent, dripping wet, thinking there's no more of her that she could give up to him, yet he makes her come all over. Leaving marks, so she can't deny the claim.

The blame could be easily put on him, Cath is stubborn enough to play that card. Steve, being the honourable and even more emotion-wary, would take it, agreeing that he corrupted her with the tales of greater good, promised between the mindtwisting orgasms. But she knows he just poked what was in her all along - the craving for thrill, additionally fueled by determination.

Though there's also a selfish streak, that has already spread under her skin, swallowing new parts of her each time Steve looks at her, like he's doing now.

With a broken emotion, that shakes to the core.

"It's almost done," Catherine whispers, quickly averting her gaze to look at the little, green bar on the screen. She's surprised by the lack of relief in her voice.

While getting the hell out of here, before either the Noshimuri brothers or one of their bodyguards notices them in the office, is impatiently awaited by a part of her, the other part seems to be restless and protesting. Those files might bring them close to finishing the case, ending the danger, but also ending _them_.

Steve moves closer. Fingertips skimming over Catherine's hand, which is pressed to the desk, undoubtedly leaving a sweaty print. The touch is brief, but surges unexpected warmth through him, as well elicits Cath's small, weak whimper.

Then it feels like a blur of movement, when the download is complete and Steve rips the pendrive out. He switches the laptop off, wipes the desk with a handkerchief and pushes Catherine towards the door. Unlike their arrival, which was executed in cautious, slow steps, the rush with which they descend through dark corridors, all the way to the side door, awakens the previously contained adrenaline.

With wide eyes, she watches Steve, realizing the hectic approach bothers only her. He might seem acting in frantic, but in reality is exceptionally composed and focused. He leads her in a fast pace, which rushes her blood, but for him it's a well known condition, in which he knows exactly what to do, performing each step with an astonishing precision.

His car smells familiar, of him. Tricked by the illusion of safety, Catherine dares to finally take a deep breath, not realizing she's been holding it. Her heart is pounding, blood buzzing in her head and the taste of nausea fills her mouth. She tries to focus on Steve, on the drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel.

It's not nervousness, but the renewed urge to write, to spill all the suppressed adrenaline in sharp words, cutting secrets open on the blank pages.

Many reporters he knows, deal with that surge with a help of alcohol, bottles calming them down when shadows hunch over. Steve, however appreciating the burning on his tongue, withdraws to pure writing. The need to do so is extremely strong, so he wouldn't waste time to switch the laptop on, but grab the nearest paper - be it a paper napkin - and scribble down, until the first, worst wave of writer's hunger passes.

He could fool the urgency, slipping his fingers over a softer surface, pressing until red fingerprints mark light skin nearly as permanently as black letters on white sheet.

"Stop the car," Catherine's choked out words barely reach him, but the movement of her body, as she curls in a spazm, covering her mouth with both her hands, draw his attention successfully.

They halt on the roadside, in the middle of a dark nowhere, with only the car's lights illuminating the nearest terrain.

Cath's silver heels sink into the sand, pebbles and shards press against the soft sole as she wobbles as far as the lights allow. The drop of adrenaline twists her insides, causing her to hunch forward with a retching sound. Nothing comes out, though, only her ragged breath and little whimpers.

"Hey, hey," Steve's hand is shockingly hot against her suddenly cold skin. She feels a shiver down her spine and instinctively leans closer, where the warmth radiates from his skin.

"Are you okay?" he steers her towards the car, letting go of her arm only when he's sure she's properly leaning against the hood. Cath half-stands half-sits on the dark blue surface, stark lights engulfing the lower parts of their bodies in a bright, yellow cloud.

Her voice comes out hoarse, but surprisingly firm, "Yes, I think so."

She brushes a ringlet of hair from her cheek, skimming her slender fingers down over the green folds of her dress to tug nervously at the hem. The slit in the fabric parts further, revealing naked thighs, lightly spread. Steve's gaze lingers on Cath's face, dropping down only for a split second, which is enough for the twisted hunger to spurt sultry images in his head.

Fingers twitch, eager to touch, but he clenches them in fists. Out of everything he's fucked up, he tries not to project his rush onto her, though the pleased voice in his head reminds him how ardently she bends to it.

Whatever ripples through her at the moment, whether fear or distress, he shouldn't use it...

"Fuck me."

Though voiced in a throaty groan, the words slipping her lips are a certain demand.

He'd protest, wanting to provide the tender care she deserves - hell, he wants to give it to her, not because he has to - but she plays dirty, rolling her dress up and spreading her legs wider.

Steve's cock twitches and _fuck_ he literally feels like a dick.

For reacting, for wanting to cave in. For his next move.

The kiss is a mess. Feverish and wet, drawing out Cath's moans and smudging her lipstick all over their mouths. Green fabric of her dress pools softly around Steve's hands, as he pushes it further up. It can't be comfortable, he's sure, with the strained position they're in, the panties pushed aside, grazing her skin, while he rubs on her clit with his thumb. Catherine's tugging at his pants, impatient and restless. Whatever emotion pushed her into this needy haze, mirroring the unbearable itch of Steve's writing fever, urges her vehemence.

Cath's chanting, "Now, please, now," caring very little for the fact he's barely got her wet. Not enough for the thrust to be easy and fluid.

He keeps rubbing, hoping to ease it, so the friction doesn't hurt much. But the edge of light pain seems to be enough for her, evoking a choked cry, when he pushes inside.

With legs wrapped tightly around Steve's hips, Cath braces herself on the hood with one hand, the other gripping at Steve's hair. Their mouths are constantly chafing, bruising kisses punctuated with grunts.

Steve's pupils widen, a surprised frown creasing his forehead, when Catherine comes with a shriek. It's quick and unexpected. He suspects, it has to do more with the emotional outburst than the actual fucking, but he doesnt mind. Not with the way she's arching and moaning. And he follows soon after, tensing and cussing, palms roughly gripping her thighs as he buries his cock to the hilt.

She doesn't protest, when he pulls her up and close, wrapping arms around her as tenderly as the aftershocks allow him.

"I've got you," he assures her, closing his eyes in pain, when she buries her face in his chest and starts sniffling, "I've got you, Cath."


End file.
